


Azurite

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [4]
Category: Original Work, Velvet Goldmine
Genre: M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3865054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A traveler in need of a replacement slave finds a barbarian prince in the dungeons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Azurite

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. 
> 
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories.

_Characters_ :

Azurite (Berdin): son of “barbarian” warrior queen; captured in battle, which is considered a great dishonor, so he can’t go home; trying to get someone to kill him so he can regain his honor. Jonathan Rhys Meyers

Ixidor: an academic but also chief of his nomadic, scholarly band and can hold his own; access to modern technology. Ewan McGregor

 

The stench was overpowering as Ixidor followed Lord Xarles down into the dungeons. His host didn’t seem to notice it, but Ixidor found himself wrinkling his nose as high as possible, as if that would somehow block the smell. The limestone walls were moist and shiny and the shadows skittered as their boots echoed down the hallway. Ixidor tried not to look at anything too closely—Lord Xarles’s bone-littered, rat-filled dungeon was like some tacky set from a grade-Z horror movie. Unfortunately, the underground catacombs were completely real.

“Is this where you house all your slaves?” Ixidor asked, glancing dubiously at the flickering torches set into the walls.

Lord Xarles pulled a ring of heavy keys from his belt and unlocked a rusty door of iron strips. “Just some of them,” he replied with a shrug. “The ones I don’t use so much.” A chilling grin spread across his face as he screeched the door open. “Or the difficult ones. It’s a little primitive,” he continued as they entered a hall lined with barred cells, “but I think you’ll find a suitable slave here.”

Ixidor could hardly breathe from the odor of moist, stale air—mold and rot and various biological scents all mingled together. He was amazed that anything at all could live in such a place, let alone be healthy enough to help his horsemaster on their journey.

“Yes, the smell _is_ something else, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” Lord Xarles laughed, addressing the head guard as he noticed Ixidor covering his nose.

“What smell, sir?” the guard replied with a smirk.

Lord Xarles seemed to find the comment hilarious, but Ixidor could only grin weakly behind his hand. He hated having to rely on Xarles for anything, but one of his stableboys had run off last week, taking half the harnesses with him. They’d been effectively stranded on the outskirts of Pello since then, unable to move the party on towards the Winter Stockade until new equipment—and new help—could be found. And Lord Xarles was the area’s prime supplier of both—for a price, of course. It wasn’t the money so much as the time spent in Xarles’s company that irritated Ixidor, however.

“My guest here is looking for a stableboy,” Lord Xarles informed the Lieutenant, a youngish man with an old, sour look about him. “Teenager, maybe. Any ideas?”

“Well, we’ve got all them Laurentzis down here, sir,” the guard replied. “Ought to be something there.”

“Laurentzis?” Ixidor repeated, slightly surprised. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a live Laurentzi before.

Lord Xarles smirked and said offhand, “Oh, I captured several of them a few months back in a battle up near Narkis. Wild animals, the lot of them. Cages seemed the most appropriate place for them.” He thought a moment. “I’m not sure if a Laurentzi would work for you, my friend.” Ixidor hated being called his ‘friend.’ “They tend to be a bit wild. Unreliable. Last thing you need is another one of those, eh?”

He slapped Ixidor on the back and laughed heartily. Lord Xarles had already expressed his disdain—more than once, in fact—for how Ixidor treated his slaves, and that, too, was grating on his nerves. Just because Ixidor didn’t beat them for nothing and chain them outdoors every night, Xarles was convinced they were all eventually going to turn on him, like the stableboy. Ixidor couldn’t believe that; if he ever caught Edur, he _was_ going to beat him and then sell him, but that didn’t mean _all_ his slaves were going to rebel like that.

Lord Xarles didn’t appear to regard Ixidor’s lack of conversation as an insult, which Ixidor supposed he should be grateful for, and he proceeded to give his visitor a brief tour of the ‘sights.’

Here was a man Xarles had caught stealing from the kitchens—ten years ago; here was a former pleasure slave whom Xarles had had a falling out with; here was a boy a passing trader had sold to him, in exchange for three casks of wine. The boy was a bit younger than what Ixidor had in mind, and kept locked away in the dungeons he certainly wouldn’t be strong enough to start a job right away, but Ixidor felt sorry for him, a child held captive by a man like Lord Xarles. He had almost decided just to buy him and get out of the dungeons as fast as possible when Xarles suddenly stopped in front of one of the cells with a grin on his face.

“Now, here’s something you _must_ see,” he insisted eagerly, signaling the guard to shine his torch in that direction. Ixidor could just see a figure curled on the floor in the shadows. “How’s he doing, Lieutenant?”

The guard shook his head. “Barely eating these days, sir,” he reported. “He’s on the decline.”

Lord Xarles actually looked a bit disappointed. “Hmm, that’s too bad,” he commented thoughtfully, peering into the darkness. He nodded at the cell door. “Open it up. Let’s take a look at him. Maybe I’ll send him back upstairs for a bit.”

The guard unlocked the metal door and yanked it open stiffly. Both he and Lord Xarles were extremely cautious as they stepped into the room, but as far as Ixidor could see the figure was barely alive. “What is it?” he finally asked, more to distract himself from the smell than to elicit Xarles’s boasting.

“Oh, this is one of my favorite prizes,” Xarles assured him. He finally came close enough to nudge the man’s back with his foot, but there was no response. “Come on now, wake up.” Xarles poked him harder. The man swayed, but seemed completely unconscious. Xarles shot an irritated look at the guard, who shrugged, then reached down to roughly shake the figure’s shoulder.

Ixidor sensed the attack before it happened—a warrior’s instinct, maybe, triggered by the way the man’s muscles tensed and his breathing changed. He took a step back, out of the way, not really planning on coming to Xarles’s aid. The figure who had seemed so still and senseless suddenly spun around when Xarles touched his shoulder, lashing out with arms and legs to bruise his captor. Taken off guard, Xarles stumbled backwards and his prisoner scrambled after him, scratching and clawing, until Xarles caught him across the face with a lucky strike and the guard simultaneously kicked his ribs. The prisoner gasped in pain and pulled back, curling around himself protectively in the farthest corner.

Xarles glared at him for a moment, then quickly turned back to Ixidor, who raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Hurriedly Xarles straightened his jacket, keeping a sharp eye on the figure in the corner. “Not quite as bad as he appeared, eh, Lieutenant?” he snapped at the guard. “Anyway,” he continued to Ixidor, “he’s one of the Laurentzis I told you about, captured in battle. Not just any Laurentzi, either—one of their barbarian princes.”

“No! Really?” In spite of his better judgment Ixidor was interested. The Laurentzi tribe was almost as feared as it was mysterious: an ancient mountain clan, they seemed to appear only to fiercely defend their territory from invaders, and they rarely left survivors who could give any details. Ixidor had always been fascinated by the people of the Old Ways, whose villages he passed through every year, and a tribe like the Laurentzis represented an even more ancient, isolated form of tradition.

Xarles looked suitably smug at Ixidor’s reaction. “Oh, yes. And he’s quite the pretty little thing, too.” Xarles laughed in a way that made Ixidor feel faintly nauseous; he could only too easily imagine his host taking _full_ advantage of the prisoners he captured. Xarles turned his attention back to the figure huddled in the corner. “Come on out, boy, my visitor wants to see you.”

Ixidor started to insist that wasn’t necessary, but Xarles ignored him to confer with the guard. After a moment they began to close on the figure from different angles, squeezing in on him until he had no choice but to attempt a mad scramble out between them. Of course as soon as he moved, Xarles grabbed one arm and the guard grabbed the other, wrenching the prisoner face down on the stone floor in the center of the cell. Xarles rested one knee on his back, hands pinned underneath, and casually presented his trophy for Ixidor’s inspection.

Ixidor really didn’t want to encourage him, so he tried to give the prisoner a passing glance and then act bored. However, once he caught sight of the barbarian prince, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was much younger than Ixidor had expected—barely out of his teens, if that. His hair, dirty and shaggy, was an unusual pale blond, and when he turned to glare up at Ixidor, his eyes were a fabulous shade of blue-green. Ixidor crouched down beside him for a better look, barely aware of Xarles’s smirk. The guard thrust his torch in to provide more light, and the boy shied away from the flame. Xarles leaned on his back sharply to force him back in place.

The boy was wearing a few ragged scraps of clothing that did nothing to conceal the elaborate band tattooed around his upper arm and across his back. The boy flinched when Ixidor gently traced it with his finger. “What’s this?” he asked, wishing he could see the design more clearly.

“Barbarian markings,” Xarles replied dismissively. “Looks like some kind of wild cat to me. That’s how you can tell he’s a prince, because the tattoos”—he reached back and yanked away the ragged cloth covering the boy’s buttocks, revealing the continuation of the tattoo down one cheek and around his leg—“go all the way down.”

Ixidor’s gaze swept the boy’s body appreciatively, malnourished though it was. He was bruised and filthy, certainly, but he hadn’t yet lost the warrior’s toning—he could be restored with just a few weeks of proper care. He would always be slender, Ixidor decided, and with his high cheekbones and delicate, almost feminine features, he was indeed very pretty. Ixidor was already imagining the possibilities.

“Like the look of him, do you, my friend?” Xarles asked tantalizingly. “I can tell you do.”

Ixidor tried to shrug casually. “Well, I’ve never seen a Laurentzi before,” he reminded his host, who merely laughed.

“It’s no use trying to fool me, I’ve been in the flesh trade too long,” Xarles replied. “He _is_ very attractive—exotic—“

Again, Ixidor had somehow sensed the boy’s warning wiggle, if unconsciously, and moved to avoid being caught when he suddenly hitched his leg up and shoved Xarles off him as hard as he could. His captor was caught off balance and awkwardly banged into the wall. The guard moved to strike the boy, quite possibly with his torch, when Ixidor intervened and squeezed the back of the boy’s neck with two strategically placed fingers. The prisoner howled, not in pain but at the sensation of his whole body going limp.

“Behave yourself and I’ll stop,” Ixidor hissed at him, trusting the order needed no translation. After a moment he switched his hand to the boy’s greasy hair, for a grip that _was_ a little painful but served to keep him still.

“Well, Ixidor,” Xarles began with a touch of admiration and a lot of surprise, “I was going to call him a dangerous toy, but I guess you’ve got a few tricks up your sleeve.”

“What’s his name?” Ixidor inquired, ignoring Xarles’s comment. Being underestimated by opponents was his frequent strategy.

Xarles waved his hand dismissively. “I never bothered to ask,” he replied. “I wouldn’t know how to in his barbarian tongue anyway.”

Ixidor stared speculatively at the style of the tattoo across the boy’s shoulder. He’d seen a similar pattern before, in a book about another hill tribe, an ancient one from when the Old Ways were the only ways. Perhaps the tribe was somehow related to the boy’s; if so, perhaps their language would be somewhat understandable to him. If Ixidor could manage to spit some out without mangling it too badly.

“What is your name?” Ixidor attempted haltingly, misconjugating horribly. The surprise on Xarles’s face was nothing compared to that of the boy’s—his beautiful eyes widened like saucers and his jaw dropped to scrape the floor of the cell.

“Who are you?” the boy finally choked out, his voice hoarse.

“A traveler,” Ixidor replied casually. “What’s your name?”

The boy’s lovely features twisted into a snarl. “You are not _kierdra_ ,” he spat venomously. “I will tell you _nothing_!”

Ixidor didn’t quite understand him, but he decided this wasn’t the best time to ask a lot of questions. “I will give you a new name, then,” he answered the blond, who merely glared at him.

“Where did you learn that language?” Xarles demanded impatiently. “What are you saying to him?”

“Just chatting,” Ixidor told him, releasing his grip on the boy’s hair and wiping his greasy hand on his trousers. “I’ll take him”

Xarles looked surprised. “You will?”

“Of course,” Ixidor replied, matter-of-factly. He hated to make Xarles right about anything, but—“He is, as you said, very attractive. And I’m here to buy, after all. Isn’t he for sale?”

Xarles snapped into his salesman mode and began to negotiate. “Oh, well, _everyone’s_ for sale, aren’t they?” he said with an unpleasant grin. “But it’s obvious this boy is out of the ordinary. Not everyone has Laurentzis lying around, you know. And he’s a prince, too.”

“He’s a barbarian,” Ixidor countered, loathing his phrasing. “He’ll have to be—broken in.”

Xarles laughed. “Oh, I’ve already done some ‘breaking in’ of him,” he assured Ixidor. He reached down and slapped the boy’s exposed buttock. “Haven’t I, boy?”

Snarling, the boy lunged for Xarles’s throat, tipping Ixidor off balance. The guard, who had just been waiting for his chance, punched the blond square across the jaw, dropping him like a stone. Xarles nudged the boy with his foot to see that he was really out cold this time. “I suppose there _are_ some discipline issues,” he conceded.

“I’ll say,” Ixidor muttered, picking himself up off the stone floor with who-knew-what on his pants.

“And I wouldn’t be doing my duty by you as a guest if I didn’t point out he wouldn’t make a good stableboy.”

“I won’t be using him as a stableboy,” Ixidor admitted. “For that, I’ll take the other boy you showed me—the casks of wine boy?”

Xarles looked a bit grudging, then abruptly shrugged it off and grinned. “Well, what do _I_ care?” he reasoned. “I’m in the business, after all. If you hadn’t come along, I probably would have brought both of them upstairs for a while, but I guess I’ll just applaud your taste and take your money.”

“Great,” Ixidor muttered.

“Come on,” Xarles urged, slapping Ixidor on the back in a familiar way, “let’s go write out the contract and have a drink.”

He steered them towards the door, stepping over the unconscious body of the blond barbarian. “What about—“ Ixidor began.

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll have him all cleaned up for you by this evening,” Xarles told him. Somehow Ixidor was glad he was going to miss that.


End file.
